


before sunrise makes us golden

by coralsclato



Series: history is written by the victors (we are the survivors) [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hair, Hair Braiding, Other, soft!cato, victors au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29221116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coralsclato/pseuds/coralsclato
Summary: cato braids clove's hair. and maybe she doesn't hate it.part one of the "history is written by the victors" series, or a collection of oneshots about clove and cato post-hunger games.
Relationships: Cato/Clove (Hunger Games)
Series: history is written by the victors (we are the survivors) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2145462
Comments: 11
Kudos: 17





	before sunrise makes us golden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [screechyschreech](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechyschreech/gifts).



> Thank you, Sky, for the prompt! You can find their ao3 _[here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechyschreech), _and the original ask _[here](https://coralsclato.tumblr.com/post/642297041101488128/cato-likes-playing-with-cloves-hair-like-just)._
> 
> Also, I totally stole the title for lack of originality, from _[this fic.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29179593)_

It's behind all the cameras - the added pomp and glamor and extravagance that the morons over at the Capitol felt needed to be a part of her life as a Victor, and a _dual_ victor at that, she thinks bitterly, with a glare over at a Cato who technically hasn't done anything wrong - that Clove's at her weakest. Her softest. That she feels human at all, really.

Feeling human - for her, that's something of a miracle all on its own.

"What are you looking at?" Cato asks her, without the usual, customary bite - the Capitol's taken _that_ too, from him, and from _her._ She _lived_ for the snarl in his deep, husky voice. All those feral growls and the snapping of teeth and the venom in his voice was what made him _him._ What made him _hers._

And now, she feels like that part of him is _gone._ His resolve is weakened and he's more reserved and quiet, like the red-hot adrenaline and bloodlust running through his veins as evaporated. Leaving him a husk, a shell, of what he formerly was.

"Nothing," she snaps, putting as much acidity in it as possible. Not that it scares Cato - they're the only ones in Two who aren't afraid of each other, and she thinks that says a lot about who they are and what they've become.

He just rolls his eyes - she can practically _feel_ him doing so. Clove knows that he's annoyed by her, vexed by her.

His fingers run through her hair, surprisingly soft and silky and running through his fingers like liquid. She hates it, _despises_ it - how shiny and beautiful and _fake_ it is, because the real her isn't soft and silky, the _true_ her isn't smooth and shiny. She's the sharp, jagged blade of a knife. She's the hardened rock found deep in the mountains of Two, rough and coarse and if you don't watch your step you _fall_ and you _bleed._

It's ironic. That she comes from the district with people who have hearts made of stone, and yet a fucking rock was almost her undoing. A god-damned _rock_ cost her everything. Her dreams, her life . . .

Not that she's particularly fond of living, anymore. Because maybe that's the cost of Victory.

"I could braid this for you, if you want," he speaks up, cutting through her morbid thoughts. She can feel those blue marbles piercing through her, knows that he's aware of the faraway look her face gets when she's thinking too hard, thinking too much.

The thought sends a jolt of surprise through her, and she shifts on the bed, letting his hand fall away. Absently, Clove almost thinks to miss the sensation, of his hands finger-combing through her hair - his rough, callused, bloody hands wanting to touch her and feel her.

Clove forces those kind of thoughts away. Even _now_ \- with no goal for domination and Victory, where she's free to give into silly distractions like romance - she still feels herself clamming up and shutting down, until she's just the Academy's drone again. Even now, only one thought is drilled into her, a mantra in her head over and over again.

 _Don't think. Don't feel. Only_ kill, _kill, kill, kill, until you drown in your enemies' blood._

"You could what," she mutters softly. It's not much of a question - just something to _say,_ even beyond the fact that her tongue is too thick and too solid in her throat and Clove's suddenly lost her ability to swallow.

He shifts on their bed too - _his_ bed, really. When she snuck into his house to hold him and to kiss him and to _feel something,_ she went into his bed, and found a home in his arms.

Clove's a little alarmed that she's started to think of his bed as _theirs._

"I could braid it," he says again, not even bothering to mock her or cut her a scornful glance. Cato runs a hand through his spikes - a distracted tic. "I mean - you know," and it occurs to Clove that Cato being so nervous and shifty might be a little cute. "You can't have your hair in your face when you train."

She raises an eyebrow - perfect and arched and Capitol-created. "Like you know anything about hair," she says - just for an excuse to fight with him, a little. But Clove turns around, a silent agreement - a silent _yes_ to his question, his offer.

Cato's fingers in her hair make her scalp tingle, just a bit. It's not a bad feeling, Clove decides - not like she'd ever think that out loud, but. It _is_ a nice feeling. Almost like a massage - except it's with _his_ hands, and not the hands of those Capitol freaks. Clove feels safe, and Clove feels _good._ Secure and nice, and, for the first time since she won the Games, _alive._

Despite his massive, large hands - she considers making fun of him for it, but decides against it - he's surprisingly nimble. Quick. Sure, he does make a few tangles, but he quickly - and far too gently - combs them out with his fingers. A small part of her - the part she thinks should have died long ago, but is not unhappy to see - feels overwhelmingly giddy at the touch.

So Clove closes her eyes, relaxes her tensed shoulders slightly. She lets him do his work, while she drifts away, slowly - not to the hell of her nightmares, but to a place that's almost peaceful. It's almost as cathartic as any kill she's ever made in the Arena, maybe even _better_ than the post-murder euphoria she feels after - just Cato braiding her hair, in his Victor's Village mansion, with the sunlight streaming through the blinds. Away from all the mentors and the blood and even the Capitol. She lets herself feel _free,_ and even indulged stupid thoughts of _getting lost_ in him, in the feeling of his hands in her hair and the drowsy sleepiness taking over her limbs.

This is different - from any escapist fantasy, an idealistic fairytale. Because it's real and it's amazing, and it belongs to her and Cato alone.

"Done," Cato announces, letting the braid fall on her shoulder. She ghosts the braid with her fingers, barely touching the work of art - even letting her lips tilt upwards, revealing a small smile.

She falls back onto the pillow - ignoring Cato's small grunt of protest, at the fact that she would so carelessly ruin his creation - and rolls over to hide it. "Thanks," she says drily - but sincerely.

It almost makes her sad - that she feels a gratitude he'll never know.

"You're welcome, you little shit," he says - but with a fond undertone, so it doesn't entirely ruin the moment. Cato pulls her braid before lazily tossing an arm over her waist, in something she supposes is supposed to resemble spooning.

"Fuck you," she responds, but the curse is more out of habit and really isn't heartfelt. Clove is sure her voice betrays that.

She tries to give him an unhappy frown over her shoulder. But Clove decides that, rationally speaking - even if she was never one to be particularly _rational,_ anyways - he's already braided her hair. They've already crossed _that_ line.

So she lets her guard down, rubbing her thumb softly over the skin between his fingers - and ignores the lopsided grin he gives her, instead choosing to watch the morning sunrise set Cato's golden hair ablaze.


End file.
